


Beware the Dark Pool

by AuntieClimactic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Going to Hell, M/M, POV Peter Hale, POV Stiles, Statutory Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntieClimactic/pseuds/AuntieClimactic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After, when Stiles was trembling, stretched out naked on his bed, breathless and anxious from what they had just done, he turned to Peter, thoughtful.</p><p>“What were you like? Before.” He asked.</p><p>Peter smiled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how "Amends" was the most consensual Peter/Stiles that ever consented? This. Not so much.
> 
> Stiles is underage (17) and Peter is emotionally manipulative. Vague references to violence and harm to animals via serial killer werewolf (you know the one).
> 
> This is the most fucked up thing I've ever written. Sorry.

_“Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb.”  -_ Sue Grafton 

 

In a world long burned to ash there lived a happy couple. This couple already had a large family and they were gaining in years, so they were surprised one day to find that the woman was expecting another child. The news was met with delight because the Pack knew one more member would only add to their strength and happiness. In mid October, the couple gave birth to their second son and youngest child. An uneventful birth, except it took place under the Hunter’s Moon – a warning of approaching danger. But the parents thought nothing of this omen. And when the baby’s eyes opened, flashing a powerful blue, they sighed with love.

They named him Peter, after the apostle.

Peter grew, strong and healthy. His teachers found his humor and quick wit a pleasure in the classroom, but his classmates noticed that he was always the first and last to laugh and they drew away, nervous even before they could understand why.

Children always see what adults long ago dismissed as impossible.

As Peter observed his classmates, he saw their unease, and learned to control his laughter behind a smile. His circle of friends widened. He knew how to play the game – how to hide in plain sight.

***

“Why are you still here?” Stiles snarled.

Peter thought of all the Alphas, roaming rampant through the woods. About what one precise slash with his claws could regain.

The corner of Peter’s mouth lifted in a sly, honest smile, “I want to help.”

***

Peter, still a boy, tracked his prey for hours during his monthly transformations, never tiring of the thrill the hunt provided. He enjoyed stalking larger animals, foxes, dear, and even coyotes, chasing them through the forest until they were wild with fear and desperate exhaustion. Only then would he strike. First at an ankle, then the flank, but never deep enough to kill. The final blow only came when the animal was on the ground, helpless, bleeding, and gasping up at Peter with hopeless, frantic breathes. Only then would Peter tear his small claws through their throats, watching in curious awe as their futures bled out into the dirt.

His parents never questioned dead animals in the woods. Who would in a family of werewolves? Appearing natural, Peter knew, meant disguising his irregular activities behind expected behavior. 

***

The boy had been kidnapped nearly five times by now, Peter mused from the sidelines of the pack, biding his time as Derek delivered the killing blow to the Alpha. When would they learn to see what outsiders discovered in thirty seconds?

Stiles was the only reason the pack was still alive.

Oh they knew his value. Stiles wasn’t exactly the type of person one could ignore, but the extent of his worth. That was the blind side.

Each member of the pack loved Stiles, in their own way, but adolescents were so consumed with angst. They didn’t _observe_ anything beyond their own melodrama _._

For example:

Scott immediately ran to Allison, the other human child kidnapped alongside Stiles. Everyone was too busy glaring at her, old grudges and past resentment still in place, to notice the look of intense hurt that passed over Stiles’ face. Everyone except Peter. Scott came to him next, of course – the wolf cared about his friend – but the damage was done. The rift between Stiles and everyone else opened a little wider. An animal separated from his herd.  

***

When Peter was ten his eldest brother produced his first offspring. Peter held the tiny girl in his hands and marveled at her defenselessness. How frail we all are, Peter thought as his niece clutched at his finger, how easily we trust.

A sign of moments waiting for the opportunity to transpire.

***

“What the Hell, man! What’s wrong with you?” Scott yelled.

“Nothing!” Stiles shoved him away, storming up the steps, past Peter, and into the house.  “Nothing’s ever wrong!”

***

Peter was social by nature. He joined the basketball team his first year of high school and made starting line, even while refusing to use his abilities. His mother, proud of his sportsmanship, hugged Peter tight.

But little did his family understand his reasoning. Peter hated a victory without the struggle.

He watched the opposing team, studying their strategies and patterns, before darting in, quick as a puncture wound, and destroying their play in one move. Beacon Hill’s basketball team went to state year Peter played on the time. The team voted Peter captain his sophomore year and MVP for nearly every season.

His family never missed a game.

***

Peter officially came to lacrosse games to irritate Derek, lecturing about pack bounding and building community ties in a way that made Derek’s eyes flash and hands curl into fists.

Unofficially, the sight of Stiles fidgeting from his spot on the bench, the bare curve of his head vulnerable without his helmet, was too addicting to pass up.

***

By graduation, Peter started sneaking into the woods, using starlight to learn the difference between a quick death and a slow one. His favorite method was a deep slash, quick and neat across the gut. He loved to watch the long seconds it took for an animal to bleed to death – an indescribable light fading from their eyes in a way Peter found addictive.

His brother once found a squirrel bisected near the stream. He frowned but said nothing. Peter watched him walk away from where he hid in the bushes.

College offered little opportunity to pursue his favorite activities. But if, when the urges grew too strong to resist, a few dogs went missing from local neighborhoods, none were the wiser.

Peter majored in psychology. He was amazed at the similarities between Pack and Cult. Submission to leadership, the group over the individual, warnings of severe consequences of defection… Peter considered that fine line, and wondered if the animal or the human in them kept that line at bay.

His professor raved about Peter’s thesis on the link between cult psychology and human evolutionary ancestry, encouraging him to publish, but, in the end, Peter felt his work was too personal.

***

“Tell me about your nightmares, Stiles.” Peter ordered absentmindedly _,_ drawing his finger through a layer of dirt on the car window.

“Wow,” Stiles turned to stare incredulously at the docile threat in his passenger seat. “Do you practice being this creepy or does it come naturally?”

Stiles and Boyd were the only members of Derek’s little island of misfit toys that could sit in the same space as Peter without trying to strangle him. Literally. Derek often wanted Boyd at his back, leaving Stiles, a defenseless child, alone with a serial killer and manipulator extraordinar. Not for the first time, Peter found Derek’s idiocy remarkable even as he used it.

Peter drew another line, making a cross in the dirt. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together slowly, deliberately, watching out of the corner of his eye as Stiles shift uncomfortable. Seventeen year old hormones an ever-present cloud around him.

“It’s obvious you haven’t been sleeping well. Exhaustion has a very distinct scent.” Peter turned to meet Stiles’ gaze and smiled. “Anyone paying attention would notice.”

Stiles flinched. Peter had long ago discovered this tender chink, had marked it for future reference.

“But with so many interesting events lately, I doubt anyone’s paid you much attention.”

“Shut up.” Stiles gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Peter raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just offering my expertise.”

“Why? Do your evil acts of evil give _you_ sleepless nights?”

 “No. Not so much. Hm.” Peter tipped his head in mocking gesture of thoughtfulness. “Maybe because I have a Masters in psychology.”

There was a long pause before Stiles burst out laughing. The sound echoing, harsh and broken, inside the Jeep.

“Oh man,” Stiles said, wiping tears of mirth and God knows what else from his eyes. “Good to know six years in a coma and a month underground didn’t destroy your sense of humor.”

Some things fire can’t burn.

***

Once, Peter wondered what it would be like to kill a human. Hunt them like prey. Easier? Harder? The curiosity of it drove Peter to stalk individuals across campus, feeling his fingertips itch with the claws he kept buried away. He was tempted, but deaths caused attention. Attention attracted hunters.

After all, he had his Pack to protect – the link between family stronger than most urges. 

***

Stiles had soaked the baseball bat in wolfsbane. Peter could smell it over the corpse, the werewolf dead and bleeding in the dirt. Peter slowly stood from where the Alpha had him cornered, ready to deliver a crippling blow, listening to the rest of the pack approaching their position in the forest. The bat hung limp in Stiles grip as the child stared, eyes wide and unfocused, at the body. Ignoring his own wounds, Peter gently took the bat from Stiles hands, clasping his bloody hand around a frail wrist as he pried Stiles’ fingers loose.

A sound, much like a swallowed down sob, strangled in the boy’s throat. Gently (eagerly) Peter placed his hand on the back of Stiles neck under the guise of emotional support – relishing the feel of Stiles’ thundering pulse and warm skin against his palm. Stiles leaned back into the touch briefly, almost helplessly, before pushing Peter away. He looked at Peter, shocked, horrified, and raw. He was shaking. Peter held his gaze and carefully, oh so carefully, let a fraction of his want bleed out, his eyes flashing blue. A dangerous risk, but Stiles stared back, trapped. Stiles’ scent, a delicious mix of disgust and lust, drifted in the air. Peter’s mouth fell open, inhaling deep. 

The moment between them stretched endlessly until the pack burst through the trees and froze in shock at the sight waiting for them. Watching, Peter saw Stiles bury his emotions under a self-depreciating smile that was both weak and shaky.  The trauma was obvious, but Derek couldn’t communicate with empathy unless it was punching him in the face, and the pathetic pack of desperate teens followed his lead, shuffling awkwardly. Scott, however, approached without hesitation and wrapped Stiles in his arms.

“You okay, man?”

Too late. Too late. Stiles returned the embrace listlessly.

“I’m fine. I’m okay.”

Scott nodded, stepping away with concerned eyes. Stiles was uncomfortable, squirming under all the attention.

“I’m fine too.” Peter deflected smarmily, quirking an eyebrow. Stiles tried to contain the grateful look he threw at Peter, but Peter caught it nonetheless.

“Oh, good.” Derek said tonelessly.

The pack moved quickly after that, as if a spell had been broken, disposing of the body and arguing about strategy. In the scuffle, no one bothered to ask why Peter had tried to take on an Alpha on his own, why he hadn’t sent for help after he and Stiles discovered her position.

His first grab at power had failed, but he’d learned valuable information. Stiles had shown that he trusted no one, not even his oldest friend, with his vulnerability. For all intents and purposes, he was isolated.

Perfect.

***

The first time Peter had sex, he didn’t understand all the fuss. It was simply two bodies rutting against each other until the tedious and predictable conclusion. Pointless. Like a kill without the hunt. After the first time he barely bothered with it, but in the final year of his Masters program he spotted a girl across his lecture hall. Peter was teaching an introductory course in psychology, and she was one of the hundreds in his class. So young, barely eighteen.  The child blushed sweetly under his attention, even from across the room.

Pets stopped disappearing shortly after.

***

Peter caught Stiles watching Lydia frequently – it wasn’t exactly understated. But the way he watched her had changed. Gone was the lustful fixation so easily confused with love, replaced now with a gaze that reflected a more resigned longing and hopelessness. 

The boy was obviously untouched. His beauty disguised behind youthful insecurity.

“She’s an idiot.” Peter said one evening when Stiles’ eyes strayed to where Lydia huddled in the corner, on the phone with Jackson.

“Seriously, fuck off.” Stiles muttered, glaring down at the protective spell and clicking the pen in his hand furiously.

“They’re all idiots.” Peter continued as if Stiles hadn’t spoken. “To not notice how special you are.”

Stiles stilled. Peter took the pen from his hands, letting their fingers brush. He leaned into Stiles’ personal space, making a careful note in the margin of his research.

His mouth was level with Stiles’ ear, whispering as his lips brushed the soft shell, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Stiles twisted away, rubbing at his ear as if to wipe off Peter’s touch, but his smell betrayed his interest, “Says the psychopath. Great. Thanks.”

“I may be insane,” Peter admitted. “But anyone who can’t see you is blind. You shine so brightly, Stiles.”

The unnoticed and untouched always went desperate under the first sign of attention from an outside source. They hadn’t learned how to distinguish flattery and a longing to be noticed from attraction. They hadn’t learned how to say no yet. Like a touch-starved child, Stiles was gagging for it. Ripe for anyone’s taking.

***

It was easy to seduce her – what young, impressionable woman doesn’t fantasize about the charming, older T.A. Peter smiled a few times, wrote encouraging notes on her papers, and soon she was knocking on his door during office hours. She was smart, uncomfortable, and eager to please under his attention. Not necessarily a beauty, but that was to Peter’s benefit. No man had yet taken interest enough to teach her the difference between fantasy and reality.

When she talked, she’d forget her self-consciousness and come to life, hands fluttering in rapid, animated movements. He ached with how much he wanted her. Peter started following her, eavesdropping on her conversations. One evening, he broke into her apartment and stood in the center of her room, breathing in the scent of her. He sat on her bed and smelled the evidence of her arousal, pulling the sheets to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.

After the semester ended, Peter asked her out. Not because he had any qualms against bedding a student, but he knew that was what was expected of him in the role she’d idealized – the polite, handsome gentleman. At the end of their first date, Peter kissed her and her obvious inexperience only sparked the flame within him.

Her heart thudded erratically as his fingers slid up her skirt, the scent of nerves and fear blending together erotically. When he entered her for the first time, she gasped at the unfamiliar pain and something inside him roared.

This, Peter realized, this was love.

***

In the end, Stiles came to him.

“Do you ever,” Stiles trailed off, licking his lips nervously. Peter put his paper down and folded his hands on the table, waiting. “Wake up from a dream and you can’t move? And part of you is still dreaming but you know if you could just move you’d wake up. But you can’t.”

Peter watched Stiles take in a shuddering breath. He’d expected this earlier. Derek’s division of labor now placed Peter and Stiles together almost exclusively, pairing up the two people who irritated him the most as some stubborn adolescent pettiness that Peter angled ceaselessly to his benefit. Soon enough, Derek would learn to keep his enemies closer, but not today. Not yet. 

For now, Peter stood and got a bottle of scotch from the cabinet.

“It’s called sleep paralysis.” Peter said pouring a generous finger into two glasses. “Caused by anxiety or a symptom of a traumatic experience.”

He offered a glass to Stiles, “Have you had traumatic experiences recently, Stiles.” It wasn’t a question. The words rolled off Peter’s tongue, smooth and seductive as the drink in his hand. He watched as the hair on Stiles’ arms rose, standing on end.

“I’m only seventeen.” Stiles gestured at the amber liquid, but his tone discussing something else entirely.

 Peter let his gaze sweep down and back up Stiles’ body, “Do I look like I care about your age?”

Stiles slowly shook his head and took the offering. His fingers touched the back of Peter’s hand, light and curious.  Peter kept his face neutral, very carefully hiding the reaction Stiles’ touch stirred – a desire to overwhelm and possess.

Instead, Peter sat back in his chair gracefully, taking a sip of his scotch. 

“It’s often associated with terrifying visions.” Peter continued, observing how Stiles tensed. “Someone else in the room, for instance.”

Stiles paled, turning away, and swallowed his scotch in open quick gulp. He looked up, surprised.

“This is good.”

“Why else would I drink it?”

Something like a half-smile crossed Stiles face. He held his glass out, hopefully, for a refill. Peter rolled his eyes, but brought the bottle of scotch to the table.

“You should tell someone about this.” Peter suggested because he always loved hiding behind honesty. If Stiles was going to tell anyone about anything Derek and Scott would have ripped Peter’s balls off months ago.

Stiles snorted, “Like who? Derek? Scott? The homicidal maniac is the most emotionally mature person in this group.”

“I prefer the term sociopath.” Peter corrected mildly, raising his glass in salute.

Stiles paused and reached for the Scotch, his voice tight. “If you asked me again today… I just want to be the one in control for once.”

He watched, silent, as Stiles refilled his drink and imagined how much fun it was going to be to strip him bare and take him apart.

***

Sex with her was different, like Peter was alive for the first time. Whatever he wanted she gave up, not confident or knowledgeable enough to say no – thought she would lose him if she said no, even if she smelled of unshed tears and confusion after.  She was so sweet and every bit of her he took was a treasure that belonged to him alone, but he knew he had to be careful. He couldn’t push too hard too quick. There were still… aspects of himself to hide, and not just the genetic ones. Peter planned on letting himself slip out little by little, not showing her everything until he possessed her completely.

***

When Stiles finally took control and kissed Peter, the child stank of fear and desperation. Peter loved it, pushing as close as he dared to get his fill of it. Stiles whimpered – clutching at Peter to either pull him closer or shove him away. Peter tenderly deepened the kiss, patiently drawing Stiles lips apart, wide enough for him to slip in and taste. He felt the sweet moment when Stiles gave in, going limp, and his insides howled.   

“This is so wrong.” Stiles moaned, half to himself and half to the world in general. But he fell, dragging Peter down after him. What teen hadn’t once stared directly into the abyss and thought, ‘to Hell with it?’

The sin was always sweeter when preformed knowingly.

Because, after their world had shattered, they still believed they were making the decisions.

That they were willing.

In control.

***

Then the fire happened.  And his family died. The ones left… Well, they didn’t mean much to him anymore.  

***

Before the fire, Peter dreamed of taking his girl out into the woods – showing her himself under the moonlight. He dreamed of taking her on the forest ground, next to the barely alive, bleeding body of his prey.

Now he dreamed of killing an Alpha. Eyes bleeding red and body shifting as he bent Stiles over the carcass. Holding him down, trusting into him until he begged - helpless, bleeding, and gasping up at Peter with hopeless, frantic breathes. Only then, in that sweet moment of utter surrender, would Peter bite, and finally claim what was his.

***

After, when Stiles was trembling, stretched out naked on his bed, breathless and anxious from what they had just done, he turned to Peter, thoughtful.

“What were you like? Before.” He asked.

Peter smiled.

 

 


	2. Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wonders if he's broken.

Stiles isn’t stupid.

He knows what happened in the Argent’s basement is a part of him now. A part that will never leave. He expects the trembling hands and embarrassed shame that follows in the wake of his abduction and abuse, spending long nights on the Internet scanning page after page of information on PTSD and psychological trauma. The numbing, detached feelings, agitation, and difficulty concentrating that unavoidably come are almost comforting in their familiarity. This isn’t his first traumatic rodeo. Stiles solves of his own problems.

The symptoms eventually fade, as they always do, and Stiles’ life returns to whatever passes for normal these days.

But then the Alpha pack waltzes into town (thanks for the warning, _Derek_ ), and Stiles finds himself tied to a chair in a dank warehouse. Bait or a message. The usual. Allison’s here too this time, but that doesn’t matter. Because Stiles is suddenly in a basement with a man that smells like death and his fists knock the breath from his lungs. Stiles read about this, but that doesn’t prepare him for how the adrenalin makes his body shake and his lungs burn painfully with each quick inhale. He’s not in a basement; he’s in a warehouse.  His mind knows, but his body doesn’t care, and he can’t control this.

Scott and the others come eventually; Stiles tries force his body back into a natural rhythm. Peter’s lurking in the corners, a reminder of yet another time he’d been on his own with a monster.  There’s a nasty part of his subconscious that reflects this is the first time anyone has come for him. Stiles ignores it until Scott, the friend he’s known since potty-training, goes to Allison first.

The rage and hurt choke him briefly. He feels a bit of it explode in the air before he can shove it down, drown it in the dark pool at the bottom of his soul where he sometimes hates his mother for dying and his father for being so fucking useless in the year that followed.

Allison is Scott’s first love. It’s natural that his life focuses around her. It doesn’t mean Scott cares for him any less. This is what Stiles reminds himself. After Allison, Scott runs to Stiles, and Stiles tries to take comfort in the manly hugs and reassuring touches, but a black feeling claws at the corner of his thoughts and all Stiles can see is the unsettling blue glow of Peter’s eyes as they crawl over him. Assessing.

Stiles swallows. Turns away.

But the damage is done, and Stiles can’t help the irrational hatred and bitter jealously that swells up whenever he looks at Allison. More disturbingly, he can’t stop the way he’s now aware of Peter. His eyes track Peter’s movements (where he stands, how he stands, what he’s touching, where he’s looking) and his body is always painfully aware of their proximity, going tense and uncomfortable when Peter stands close to or behind him.

It doesn’t help that Peter always seems to be around. He sits next to Stiles on the couch during “pack meetings,” slouching in a way that’s impossibly elegant as he makes snide yet intelligent comments that everyone else thinks but doesn’t say. When Stiles wanders into the kitchen, Peter’s there. Long fingers wrapped around a glass, and Stiles feels the ghost of those fingers on his wrist, the light puff of breath that hit his skin before he pulled his arm away. He regrets, but pushes the feeling away before he can examine it.

It’s terrifying because it’s similar to how he reacted to Lydia, one upon a time. Stiles tries to write it off, tell himself that it’s different – a fear and wariness, not an attraction. But Stiles was afraid of Lydia. And this familiarity is not comforting. Stiles feels like he’s trapped in a constant state of hypervigilance, skin vibrating until he’s scared he’ll shake out of it any minute.

Stiles reads more Internet articles. They all suggest therapy, but the idea of talking to anyone about this not only seems laughable, but impossible. And admitting it... Discussing all the terrible thoughts and emotions that Stiles hates himself for even as he thinks and feels them. He can’t.  

He can’t.

So he tries to treat it like his other disorders. What’s one more, right? What’s a little PTSD on top of his ADHD, panic attacks, and general anxiety?

It works for the most part. He can’t help the irritability or random outbursts of anger. It gets the better of him sometimes.

Once, Allison starts a sentence with, “Derek, you knew my mother -”

Stiles interrupts, “You’re mother killed herself because she hated werewolves more than she loved you. That’s not Derek’s fault.”

Everyone freezes. Allison expression crumbles like someone just slapped her across the face and then spat on her. Stiles is immediately ashamed, but he doesn’t know how to take it back. And part of him doesn’t want to.

Scott grabs Stiles by the arm, just shy of painful, pulling him away from the group.

“What the Hell, man?” Scott yells, coming to Allison’s rescue in a way that grates against the back Stiles teeth. “What’s wrong with you?”

And Stiles wants to cry. But he just shoves Scott away.

“Nothing!” Stiles hears his voice crack, as he turns towards the house where Peter sits causally on the steps, watching everything. He storms towards to door, his legs brushing against Peter’s coat as he goes past. “Nothing’s ever wrong.”

He slams the door behind him. Shuts out everything until it goes away or he feels strong enough to ignore it.

Derek stops pairing him with Scott during patrols. At first, he takes Stiles with him into the woods and makes a few inept attempts at discussing what happened, but Stiles jokes snidely and presses at every single one of Derek’s buttons until Derek’s practically pulsing with frustration. Boyd starts joining Derek on patrols soon after, and that leaves Stiles with Peter, which brings new meaning to the phrase, ‘thrown to the wolves.’

He’s not surprised that everyone draws away from him. But it still hurts.

It still feels like betrayal.

Especially when Peter’s in Stiles’ Jeep, legs splayed open and fingers trailing absently over the window. Stiles wonders if he has some bizarre form of Stockholm Syndrome in addition to everything else because there’s no way his reaction to this man is appropriate.

“Tell me about your nightmares, Stiles.” Peter orders absentmindedly _,_  drawing his finger through a layer of dirt on the car window. Stiles tenses. He hasn’t told anyone.

“Wow,” Stiles attempts to deflect through sarcasm, a tactic that’s worked on everyone so far. “Do you practice being this creepy or does it come naturally?”

Peter draws another line, making a cross in the dirt, and rubs his fingers together slowly. Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat as a burst of unwelcome arousal shoots down his spine. This shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t okay.

“It’s obvious you haven’t been sleeping well. Exhaustion has a very distinct scent.” Peter meets Stiles’ gaze and smiles, almost sympathetically. “Anyone paying attention would notice.”

Stiles flinches and adverts his eyes from Peter’s gentle expression. He sounds like he understands what Stiles is feeling and wants to nothing more than to extend his compassion.

“But with so many interesting events lately, I doubt anyone’s paid you much attention.”

“Shut up.” Stiles grips the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The only one who recognizes him is Peter Hale. How broken is he? This is how healthy, normal people end up joining cults.

Peter raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just offering my expertise.”

“Why?” Stiles snaps, “Do your evil acts of evil give  _you_  sleepless nights?”

Peter blinks slowly in false surprise, as if the thought has honestly never occurred to him, and tilts his head to the side in a self-mocking gesture. “No. Not so much. Hm… Maybe because I have a Masters in psychology.”

And that image is so ludicrous that it sticks it Stiles’ head from a long second, blocking everything else out. The sound of his laughter surprises him as it reverbs against the interior of his Jeep, bouncing against the space where he’s contained with Peter. Or maybe the space he’s created with Peter. The lines blur; tears of mirth cloud his vision as weeks of tension release in one quick, painful moment.

 “Oh man,” Stiles says, wiping at his eyes. “Good to know six years in a coma and a month underground didn’t destroy your sense of humor.”

Peter smiles and this time it’s secretive, razor-sharp.

A movement in the distance. One of the Alphas pass through the trees. Stiles holds his breath as the figure disappears. He’s about to suggest that they call Derek when Peter jumps from the car, faster than Stiles can react. He moves like a killer used to stalking prey, shifting through the woods with the ease of someone who’s done this before.

“Shit.” Stiles mutters, grabbing the bat he’s kept hidden under a pile of old gym clothes in the back and giving chase. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t call Derek, but he doesn’t.

He hears howls and snarls in the dark, loud enough to attract attention from miles away. Stiles bursts through the trees in time to see Peter fall, holding the gash in his stomach. The Alpha roars and raises its hand, claws extended and dripping with blood.

Stiles doesn’t think. He moves. The baseball bat he soaked for a month in wolfsbane connects with the Alpha’s head with a sickening _crack_. Again. And again. Stiles swings until brains leak out into the dirt.

The bat hangs limp in Stiles’ grip as he stares, eyes wide and unfocused, at the body.

There are strong fingers carefully prying the bat from Stiles’ grip.

Stiles waits for the regret and horror that his father says comes with taking a life in the line of duty, but all he feels in numb.

He hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

A sound bubbles up from his throat. Stiles tries to swallow it down, terrified it’s a laugh.

Peter’s hand cups the back of Stiles’ neck and the warm, soothing touch feels so good that Stiles can’t stop himself from leaning back into it before drawing away. There’s a body on the ground. Stiles starts to shiver.

He looks around helplessly. Peter’s here. Peter’s always here. Stiles can see Peter’s guts even as his skin starts to slowly knit together. Their eyes meet, and Peter’s gaze flashes that dangerous, reflective blue, glowing with unfiltered desire. It blazes down Stiles’ spine and his toes curl in his shoes.

Stiles doesn’t know how to react. No one’s looked at him that way before.

There’s a body on the ground.

Peter’s mouth is open, inhaling deep as his eyes flutter closed. His body twitches, like he wants to move but he’s restraining himself. If he were to come closer, press up against him… Stiles would let him.  

He wants that. All of it. Just once. Even as it repulses him.

There’s a body on the ground.

The pack bursts through the trees, Derek in the lead.  Stiles steps back from Peter and gives the group a self-depreciating smile that fells weak, shaky, and utterly false.  Derek stares at the body, and slowly lifts his eyes to Stiles. A helpless expression passes over Derek’s face. Stiles sees that look on his dad’s face all the time now, a parent who doesn’t know how to talk to their child. Boyd and Isaac shuffle, awkward in the silence.

Scott, however, approaches without hesitation and wraps Stiles in his arms. Stiles listlessly returns the embrace, wanting to take solace, but not knowing how to anymore.

“You okay, man?” Scott whispers, holding Stiles tight.

Stiles nods, “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

His heart ticks with the lie. Scott steps away, concerned eyes making Stiles shift uneasily.

“I’m fine too.” Peter says smarmily, quirking an eyebrow and breaking the silence. Stiles is so grateful for the deflection that he can’t breathe.

“Oh, good.” Derek said tonelessly. “We were worried.”

If he thought Peter was hanging around him before, he was wrong. After that night Peter is everywhere: at his lacrosse games, gaze burning like a hot touch against his neck; in the woods, palming his elbow to gently guide him in the dark; at the house, leaning over Stiles to read the computer screen – arms caging him in as he points out something Stiles missed. The touches are brief, not enough to scare Stiles with their overtures, but sufficiently doled out to leave Stiles aching and anxious. It’s deliberate, Stiles knows, calculated in a way to arouse and frustrate, but understanding the strategy doesn’t render it any less effective.

Sometimes he watched Lydia longingly, remembering a time when his life wasn’t so monstrous.

“She’s an idiot.” Peter tells one evening, sitting next to him on the couch, close enough that their thighs touch.

“Seriously, fuck off.” Stiles clicks the pen in his hand furiously as he tries to focus on his research and not on how good Peter smells.

“They’re all idiots.” Peter continues softly, as if Stiles hadn’t spoken. “To not notice how special you are.”

Stiles stills, trying to contain his reaction, because this kind of attention is new, and a part of Stiles craves it. He wonders if he would react the same way to anyone else. If he’s really this needy. Peter takes the pen from his hands and their fingers brush. He leans into Stiles’ personal space, side pressing hotly against his shoulder as Peter makes a careful note in the margin of Stiles’ research.

Peter whispers into Stiles’ ear, lips brushing the soft shell, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

A violent jolt twists in Stiles’ stomach and his dick twitches traitorously.

Stiles bends his body away, rubbing at his ear as if to wipe away evidence of his interest, “Says the psychopath. Great. Thanks.”

“I may be insane,” Peter admits. “But anyone who can’t see you is blind. You shine so brightly, Stiles.”

Stiles resists as much as he knows how. Never reacting, but never refusing either. He can’t make himself give this up.

One night Stiles realizes he can’t remember if the Alpha he killed was male or female. He tries for a while. Then stops.

He finally starts having the nightmares he’s expected ever since Gerard beat the shit out of him in that basement. But they’re different because they occur when he’s half awake. Body paralyzed as dark impressions of people, Gerard, an Alpha, another shapeless image bleeding threat and danger, and even Peter in full Alpha form pass through his room. Getting right up on his bed sometimes before he can snap himself awake, heart pounding and throat raw from screaming. His dad’s frantic. Suggests therapy.

But it’s almost impossible to talk to anyone now. Killers, he supposes, exist in an isolated group. And he only knows one other killer.

Peter’s in the kitchen reading a paper, an action so normal and human it throws Stiles for an instant.

“Do you ever,” Stiles licks his lips nervously. Peter puts his paper down and clasps his hands together on the table, satisfied like he’s been expecting this. “Wake up from a dream and you can’t move? And part of you is still dreaming but you know if you could just move you’d wake up. But you can’t.”

Peter stands, unfolding his powerful body from his chair, and pulls a bottle of scotch from the cabinet.

“It’s called sleep paralysis.” Peter says calmly as he pours. “Caused by anxiety or a symptom of a traumatic experience.”

He offers a glass to Stiles, “Have you had traumatic experiences recently, Stiles.”

 It isn’t a question. The words roll off Peter’s tongue, smooth and seductive as the drink in his hand.

“I’m only seventeen.” Stiles gestured at the amber liquid, but they both understand what’s being discussed.

 “Do I look like I care about your age?”  Peter gaze sweeps down and back up Stiles’ body, eyes alive with heat and want. Drawing a line in the sand.

Stiles slowly shakes his head. He reaches out, over the line, for the drink. His fingers touch the back of Peter’s hand, light and cautious. Peter’s skin is warm. Alive.

Peter sits back in his chair gracefully, taking a sip of his scotch. 

“It’s often associated with terrifying visions.” Peter continues, blue eyes intent and focused. “Someone else in the room, for instance.”

Stiles remembers and swallows his scotch in open quick gulp. It burns pleasantly in a way the drinks he pilfers from his dad’s cabinet never do.

He glances at Peter, surprised. “This is good.”

“Why else would I drink it?” Peter asks, dryly. And the situation suddenly seems amusing to Stiles. Sitting in a half-repaired, burned out house. Alone with a man twice his age who may or may not be trying to get him drunk.

Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows what this is. He holds his glass out in a painfully symbolic gesture. Peter rolls his eyes, but brings the bottle of scotch to the table.

“You should tell someone about this.” Peter suggests half-heartedly as Stiles refills his glass and drains it almost as quickly.

Stiles snorts rudely, alcohol already loosening his tense limbs. “Like who? Derek? Scott? The homicidal maniac is the most emotionally mature person in this group.”

“I prefer the term sociopath.” Peter corrects mildly, raising his glass in salute.

“If you asked me again today,” Stiles pauses and reaches for the Scotch. He never expected what he was about to say to ever be voiced out loud. He planned on keeping it buried. Rotting away with the rest of his secrets.

“I just want to be the one in control for once.” Stiles finishes, his voice tight.

Peter says nothing. Just watches. Waiting.

To Hell with it, Stiles thinks. To Hell with all of it.

He follows Peter up the stairs. Into his room. Peter closes the door behind him and the click of the lock is deafeningly. 

Doesn’t he deserve to feel something nice? Doesn’t he deserve someone who wants him? Just once.

Doesn’t he deserve this?

Peter steps close, one hand touching his waist, fingers stroking the patch of skin between his shirt and jeans. Stiles breaths out once, closes his eyes, and moves forward.

The kiss is too much and not enough. The intensity of Peter’s lips against his make him clutch at Peter’s shoulders and whimper. Tenderly, patiently, as if he’s got all the time in the word, Peter draws Stiles’ lips apart and deepens the kiss, tongue gentle and kind against his own. Stiles gives into the feeling, remaining resistance draining out of him, leaving him limp even as his hands slip under Peter’s shirt, pressing against skin and muscle.

Something, like a muffled growl, vibrates from within Peter’s chest. Stiles breaks the kiss with as gasp and Peter automatically latches onto his throat, inhaling the scent behind Stiles’ ear before nipping the vulnerable tendon there. Peter’s body is tense, as he reveals his desire to Stiles carefully, bit by bit.

“This is so wrong.” Stiles moans, but he falls back onto the bed, dragging Peter down after him.

This may be a mistake, but it’s _his_ mistake. Finally, since that night he dragged Scott out into the woods, Stiles feels like he making his own decisions instead of reacting to the situations around him.

He helps Peter pull off his clothes. Peter sucks biting kisses into his skin, marking him in places that Stiles’ clothes will hide. Stiles trembles as he unzips Peter’s pants, getting his first real look at another man’s erect cock. It’s long and flushed at the tip, and Peter hisses as Stiles runs his fingers curiously against the vein that runs underneath. He presses Stiles to the mattress, and Stiles revels in the feeling of an attractive, strong body holding him down.

This is really happening. This is how it’s ending.

It’s over embarrassingly fast, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He has a distant, pleased look on his face as he plays in the mess they’ve made, rubbing his fingers over Stiles’ stomach as Stiles catches his breath and tries to control his shaking, virginity-free, body.

The implications of what they’ve done roll over him and settle on Stiles’ shoulders like an unforgivable weight. He’s anxious, wondering if they’ll do this again. Wondering if he wants to. What Scott will say.

“What were you like?” Stiles asks without thinking, “Before.”

Peter turns his face away, and for a moment Stiles thinks he’s crossed a line. But then Peter smiles at Stiles and there’s a familiar glint in his eyes that makes Stiles afraid. And aroused.

“I was good at hiding.” Peter says, canines sharp and shockingly white against his gums. “Like you.”

Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows what this is.

But he doesn’t care anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible human being. And there might be another chapter. Ugh. What is this?


End file.
